


A Junkie

by th_esaurus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, No Context, Non Consensual, PWP, Sex Pollen, Wildly OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:17:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham get sex-pollened. No really, that's the entire plot of this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Junkie

He came to Hannibal sweat-drenched like summertime, and staggering against the office doorframe. Hannibal helped him in, helped him off with his jacket, and Will hissed at the touch like he was carved from ice, steaming.

He was hard from the outset, and he pawed at Hannibal's hands, urged them down towards his fly, but Hannibal merely gripped him by the shoulders, ignored the whine and the way he leant into the touch, and said, "Will, you need to rest. Can you walk?"

Will stumbled beside him to the chaise, and now he was in the orbit of another person, someone with heat and hands and the ability to touch him, he was laid feeble with it. He walked sidelong, half carried, and pushed his hips against Hannibal's at every pace. "You're doing very well," Hannibal soothed; helped him lie against the chaise. 

"Please don't—leave me," Will moaned, his palms searching and sweaty.

"I shall be here," Hannibal assured him. "I shan't leave you."

*

The first hour, Hannibal took notes out of curiosity. Will shucked his jeans almost immediately, kicking them off like a sleepwalker on a sweltering night. He cringed at his own actions, at mussing up the orderly calm of Hannibal's pristine office, might have murmured an apology that was lost in a moan. 

The chaise took the brunt of his first burst of agony. He turned onto his stomach, dragged his belly against the leather, palmed his cock frantically through his boxers. He said Hannibal's name, breathed it between pleas for help, and every time Hannibal said, "I am here, Will. Don't worry. I'm here."

He made notes. He watched Will knead a frantic and sub-par orgasm out of himself, and took notes on how long it lasted, and whether or not Will shed tears.

*

Hannibal made coffee for them both, and when he returned, Will was in his chair, his legs bent up and his feet pressed against the desk; and he was wringing his cock desperately. His head lolled to the left, staring at the door to the kitchenette, waiting for Hannibal to return. 

Hannibal took a sip of his coffee, found it too hot, and put Will's on the corner of the desk for him. Close up, Will looked – and it was an objective opinion – terribly ill. Flushed from his cheekbones right down to where his stubble began to thicken around the jaw, his eyes raw and bloodshot, sweat on his temple and his collarbones. Hannibal leant over and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt a little more than it already was, and Will moaned wordlessly, canted his hips up into his hand and bucked furiously.

Hannibal was careful not to touch his skin. 

"I feel like I'm dying," Will managed. He grabbed at Hannibal's arm, and when Hannibal gently pried him free, he suckled on his own thick fingers instead, sought out the cleft of his ass, pushed in, both shameless and utterly ashamed.

"You've had far closer brushes with death," Hannibal said mildly, smiling.

When Will came that second time, he left his mess on the edge of the desk and in his hot daze, knocked Hannibal's etching tools from the tabletop as he scrabbled his shaking hands around it. He was looking for a handkerchief. He was looking for a handkerchief to clean up his filth.

*

Will Graham crawled half naked to where Hannibal sat, and leant his head against Hannibal's crossed knees, and stained the pristine cotton with his sweat and his open-mouthed spit. 

"Please, christ," he sobbed.

Hannibal closed his notebook, and clipped his fountain pen in its spine, and checked his watch. "What is it you need of me?" he asked, in his own time.

"I need—I _need_ ," was all Will could say.

"I cannot help you if you cannot help yourself," Hannibal said gently. He put his fingers under Will's jaw and tilted his head up, and thumbed away the bubble of spit at the join of Will's cracked lips. Will sobbed aloud with it, and his prick jerked up, and he seemed to be actively fighting the compulsion to simply rut against Hannibal like an untrained dog. 

"Please," Will said, his teeth utterly gritted, "Please—fuck this out of me."

Hannibal would've liked to hear him ask it again. But Will was mouthing at his thumb now, his brief coherency lost. His cock was swollen and slick, his thighs trembling, come-stained, and he grabbed and squeezed at Hannibal's ankle like all his hands were good for anymore was bringing someone off.

Hannibal had prepared a few trite-sounding lines about ethics and morality, but he was not made of stone.

He rolled up his sleeves, and told Will to wait while he washed his hands.

*

He still took his time about it.

*

When Hannibal returned, Will was on all fours on the desk, just barely. His arms seemed to have given way with the effort of holding himself up, and he was pressing his cheek against the wood as though it would cool him. As though he could be cooled, in this state. It served to cant his hips up at a particularly beautiful tilt, and Hannibal went over to him and steadily, smoothly, stroked his palm over the curve of Will's ass. 

Will swore at him, and apologized after every other curse. 

Hannibal left him for a moment, searched his shelves for a book he didn't much care for (he picked a surgical tome, in the end, that was both written very coldly and had yielded all the useful information it cared to impart), and took it to Will, and lifted his head, and told him to bite down on the spine of it to fill his mouth. He graciously let Will lathe at his thumb and forefinger a little first, stroked his damp hair while he did, and then gave him a brief slap to bring back his senses; coaxed his teeth around the book. 

"I cannot fill you at both ends," Hannibal said, amused. "I am only human, after all."

He only opened his trousers enough to free his cock, and did not take off anything else. He suspected the excess of skin contact would cure Will of his malady, or make him lose his mind, and neither was particularly desirable at this juncture. 

So he spread Will's ass with his thumb, and neatly spat there, and rubbed him wet, and pressed the head of his cock where Will Graham began and ended. 

Will sobbed out, and came there and then. 

Hannibal, of course, did not stop.


End file.
